Horizon Line
by ASillyGermaninLatinClass
Summary: The final part of the series, the last generation. Follows Patrick Whelan, son of Kyle. i hope you enjoy (and it's still not hetalia really)


The boy stood pale and awkward in the boat. This repurposed tourist boat that had been seized almost immediately for the war effort. _The War Effort_. What a horrific thing. And yet, there was the boy, crammed like sardines with all the other young men who enlisted in the Yankee Division. Standing awkward and gangly along the railing looking back into the harbor. Back at the Light, back at the skiffs and schooners and dinghies and tug boats and trawlers. Back at his house, back at his family, back at his sweetheart, back at his twin's grave. Back at everything he'd ever known in his 21 years of life.

It hadn't taken much to encourage him to enlist. Everyone else was, and it would be a grand adventure. They'd head over to France and give the Krauts a good lickin' and be back home. It wouldn't take long. And so a few days ago he went down to tell his family that he was leaving. His mother, though she wasn't surprised, was still teary eyed. She held him close and sobbed into his shirt.

"Be _careful_ Patrick Whelan. Don't you _dare_ forget us. Send letters, and come home when you're done. Be safe please."

His father was much more reserved. That was his nature. He was a weather-hardened sailor, a surfman. He said what needed to be said and nothing more, only speaking when needed. This quality was one of the reasons he was so highly regarded among the sailors in their community. True to his fashion, therefore, he gave his son a clap on the back and a firm hug.

"Do us proud son. Serve with honor and dignity. Come home safe."

After giving all of his farewells and promises to his parents he went toward his grandfather, who had been sitting at the table watching him quietly as he gave his goodbyes. Aidan Whelan was a dignified man. He had become a pillar of the community, a leader among the fishermen when he was in his prime. The days of active leadership were behind him now. He was the community's source of wisdom now. Though he walked with a pronounced limp, he still held a bright spark of life.

"Be smart Patrick, my boy." He looked over the boy with wise eyes, "It will not be what you expect. Keep that in mind. And when you get scared out of your mind, which you will, remember why you left in the first place. Try your best to come home safe."

The boy had gone to his sweetheart's home next and bid her a fond farewell. She gave him a small pin to wear, that had been a family heirloom of hers. After he had finished all his goodbyes with her he went to his sisters' homes. First the younger, Kayleigh, then the elder, Bridget. Kayleigh didn't cry much, she had already shed all her tears for her husband, who was also enlisting. Bridget did cry. Her husband wasn't leaving; they had children. So he was the first person she had to say goodbye to.

Finally, he went to the cemetery. His brother's grave was next to his great-grandmother's. _Seamus Whelan - Beloved son and brother 'Until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand' - 1896-1909_

"Goodbye dheartháir. I have nothing to say that you don't already know. Please watch over me. Watch over Dad and Ma and Bridget and Kayleigh and their families and Granda Aidan. I hope to see you again soon."

All of these goodbyes flew through his mind as he watched the familiar shores recede into the soft haze of the horizon. The boys around him joked and laughed amongst each other. They didn't look back, but they weren't looking forward.

So here he stood, quiet and thoughtful in a boat filled with other boys almost like him. He didn't fit the clothes he wore. Sure they were his size, sure they looked alright. He didn't fit in them the way the other boys did. They wore them with strength, with pride. They were not nervous about their journey, their destination. They had accepted the uniform, the duty, wholeheartedly. But his shoulders bowed under the weight of the khaki jacket, under the weight of his undertaking. He shrank into the folds of khaki and olive green. The others laughed around him, eager for their adventure. They were not afraid. And he hadn't been afraid. Not when he first signed up, not when he was given his uniform, not when he was given his gear. He hadn't been afraid until he saw the last remnants of his old life dissolve into the mist.

Carefully he grabbed his rifle, shouldering it clumsily. Then he turned, took a breath, and moved to join the other boys. Every step from the railing he stood taller. Soon he was standing with his shoulders square in a group of laughing men. He never once looked back at the land that was gone behind him. He had said his goodbyes, there was no purpose in worrying about what was done. Now he shouldered his rifle. Now he went forward. Now he accepted his duty.


End file.
